


No Cause For Concern

by numbjaw



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ghosts, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Modern Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan, Murder Mystery, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:00:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24207085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/numbjaw/pseuds/numbjaw
Summary: Every small town has a haunted house.Every haunted house a story.Jean Kirstein never expected to become part of one.
Relationships: Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein
Kudos: 6





	1. Author's Note

This story was originally titled “The House on Trost Street”. It was written a few years ago in a first-person style perspective which was - to put it nicely - flawed. Not that writing is meant to be flawless (especially fanfiction) but overall it was enough to put a dent in my ambition. I loved the idea I had, but I hated my execution of it. Therefore, the story sat abandoned for a good time while I mulled over what to do. I knew I didn’t want to pick it back up again as it was, but I didn’t want to completely scrap it either because I had grown too attached to it. As a result, I finally made the decision to go ahead and rewrite it - hopefully a lot better this time. Certain dialogue and descriptions may be from the original, but this is otherwise a complete and total rewrite. A quick thank you to those who supported and offered their thoughts on the original version. I don’t think I would have made the decision to improve it otherwise.

This one’s for you.

\- numbjaw


	2. The House on Trost Street (Poem)

“The House on Trost Street”

By A.L.

There’s a house on Trost Street, unlike all the others.

It creaks and shrieks and there’s blood in all the shutters.

They say you’re cursed as soon as you’re inside,

They say it’s the wrath of everyone who died.

Those who stay, never stay long,

And those who do, wind up gone.

One death, two deaths, three deaths, more,

A history of murder behind it’s doors.

Don’t go inside, don’t let yourself see,

Or you’ll be next at the house on Trost Street.


	3. Prologue

It was slipping away. 

All of it was slipping away into a colorless void as his weakening hands struggled against a force he couldn’t see or grasp. A malicious force - choking him from his life, from the world. A throbbing pain, unlike anything he had felt before, was quickly overtaking his head, while his feet hovered mere inches from the precious ground, where a yellow ball lay. The more he struggled, the more the pressure tightened. His head felt as though it were about to burst. His heartbeat had turned from erratic to hard; as though he was being repeatedly punched in the chest. He was down to the last bit of air in his lungs and could no longer gasp for more. Gradually, he began to lose the battle and fall limp.

It would be over soon, he realized. He thought about his parents. He thought about the last time he had seen the sun. Had it been today? Or the day before? He couldn’t place the last time he had really paid attention. Suddenly, regret. Why hadn’t he paid attention?

Through the darkness overtaking the corners of his vision, he saw the sudden, sharp glimmer of sunlight through the trees. There was a chain drifting backwards and forwards. A swing. He could hear it, now - creaking over and over. And laughter, light and warm, much like the sun itself.

Her.

He looked from the yellow ball just beneath his feet towards the stairs.

She was there, watching in terror.

“Go,” He rasped, “Go…”

That was it. That was the last of his air. He watched it send the girl running back up the stairs as the sound of the swing set abruptly rattled to a stop.

It was the last thing Marco Bodt saw.


	4. Summer in Paradis

In most ways, summer in Paradis, South Dakota could be just as brutal as the winters. It was the kind of heat that made the air sticky and heavy. Both plants and people tended to wilt until sundown, only to repeat the process the next day. Most residents opted to stay indoors whenever possible, and anyone who  _ had _ to go out usually did so with a supply of wet towels and canteens of water. Only the most acclimated willingly took to their porches; usually the older folks who would live and die in Paradis without so much of a thought of going elsewhere.

The younger generation was different, as they often were, invisibly connected to one another at all times, with no need to sit on a porch to seek a social opportunity, often dreaming of anywhere else but Paradis. For them, the world was a concept that was too far away to fully realize, yet at the same time, it was in their bedrooms - in the palms of their hands. Trivial complaints over the weather and Paradis were broadcast daily through Twitter feeds, which was sharply contradicted by beautifully-filtered Instagram snapshots, usually tagged “#summerinparadis”, which brazenly left out the aforementioned negativity. But behind every one of those posts was a Paradis high school graduate, doused in sweat, apathy, and dread.

Paradis, though older and larger than most of the surrounding towns, was a small city and steadily growing smaller. It offered very little to anyone between high school and retirement age. With big cities like Marley only 240 miles away, which had three colleges, a plethora of office buildings, and - as of four years ago - their own national football team, it wasn’t at all uncommon to spot moving trucks sprinkled around town, their destinations set for Marley, who’s very slogan was “The City of Opportunity”... at least for those who had the finances. 

Due to the rapid population boom, Marley had quickly become one of the most expensive cities to live in - not only in the state, but in the nation, quickly killing off the tradition of Paradis high school graduates venturing there for college. One would have to achieve a pretty shiny scholarship to make the University of Marley happen, which, given the shallow resources of Paradis, was next to impossible. And perhaps this was why an entire group of young adults made up the staff at one of the only superstores in Paradis that wasn’t a hunting and fishing supply store.

Titan’s was a fitness dreamland, with every type of sporting equipment imaginable. It had everything from treadmills to hockey sticks to yoga mats. It’s opening in Paradis, though originally protested, was probably one of the most exciting things to ever happen in the city’s history. For many of the younger residents, it represented something even better: their newest ticket out of Paradis.

The idea was simple enough: work away a year at Titan's, then transfer to a sister store in a bigger city. Marley alone had three locations, and the chain had at least one store in each state. A small-town Paradis no-namer could go anywhere if they put in enough effort at Titan’s.

Well, it all  _ seemed _ plausible enough at orientation, until that single year turned into five without a single opportunity to transfer out. Even gaining a semblance of a promotion was scarce, leaving would-be good employees downright hating the company but unwilling to leave; damn them for paying over the minimum wage...

Of the many disgruntled Titan’s employees was Jean Kirstein, twenty-three, perpetually single, and unlike most of his friends, still living with his mother.

* * *

Despite the high temperatures and incessant, muggy air, Jean Kirstein always vouched for summer. He liked how effortlessly lush his mother’s garden became. He liked the community BBQs, the summer blockbusters at the theater off of Main, and watching the Fourth of July fireworks light up Lake Jinae. Hell, he liked being able to actually feel his damn hands without any threat of the cold biting them off.

Ask anyone else who knew him, however, and they would say summer was just Jean’s excuse to walk around shirtless all the time - which, to his credit, wasn't the worst thing on the eyes, but when attached to his cocky, try-hard attitude, washboard abs could only do so much.

Connie Springer, coworker and best friend, often chided him for it.

“Really, man? It’s not even that bad out today.”

Jean, perched on a ladder outside of his mother’s house, looked over his shoulder to see Connie sitting on his bike by their mailbox, wearing the same green shirt as the day before.

“Maybe not for  _ you _ ,” said Jean, “But  _ I’ve _ been busting my ass all morning.”

“It’s our day off. We survived the 4th of July again,” Connie said, in reference to their hellish, retail sale from the previous day, “You should be relaxing like the rest of us!”

“Well, the rest of you don’t - ” Jean cut himself off suddenly.

“Don’t what?” Connie asked, knowingly smirking, “Have  _ chores? _ ”

“Shut up! It’s not like tha - ”

“Jean-boy, when you’re finished out there, can you bring that ladder inside and change the air filters?” Rang his mother’s voice from one of the open windows beneath him.

As cicadas rattled loudly in the trees nearby, Connie watched as Jean visibly sank on the ladder.

“Jean, did you hear me?” His mother called again.

“Y-Yeah! Gimmie a minute, would you?!” Jean shouted back, hoping he was sunburned enough at 10 o’clock in the morning to conceal how badly he was blushing from embarrassment.

Connie shook his head and sighed loudly. “You seriously need to move out already.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Jean asked, his tone sharp. 

“Nope. Nowhere. The day’s  _ all mine! _ ” Connie answered, sing-song.

“Where’s Sasha?”

“Probably still asleep. I was heading over there next. You coming or what?”

Instead of answering, Jean merely waved his hammer for effect.

Connie seemed to bite back another comment before mounting his bike; he knew better not to push Jean’s buttons too much - at least, when Jean was holding a potential weapon. “Catch you tomorrow, then. Just... text if anything changes, I guess.”

“Right, see ya...” Jean trailed, watching as Connie zipped off around the corner.

Jean huffed to himself and grabbed the T-shirt that was shoved into his back pocket to pad the sweat off of his face. After tucking the shirt back, he turned his attention back to the loose shingle he was working on. He went back to hammering it in place, all the while Connie’s words weighing heavily on him. He didn’t understand  _ why _ he was so irritated; Connie was right. He  _ did _ need to move out, if he wanted any chance of peace, at least. Or a girlfriend.

Jean swung the hammer again, a bit harder than before. The nail stubbornly bent inwards on itself.

“Damn it.”

As he yanked the nail out and placed in a new one, he heard the sound of his mother humming in the kitchen. It was a song he hadn’t heard in a long time. A pang of guilt then took the place of his irritation.

His mother. He loved her, but she was just incredibly... overbearing. It hadn’t been so bad when he was five, but now he was  _ twenty-three _ . Everybody else he knew, Connie included, had moved out as soon as they had graduated. Granted, most of them all lived together to make it happen, but Jean wasn’t too keen on the concept of roommates. Plain and simple, everyone pissed him off too much, and to him, the point of moving out was being able to do it on one’s own. All it would take was for one person to drop the ball, get fired, and he’d be right back to living with his mom again. Why go through that? No, thanks.

A part of Jean knew a lot of his thoughts were ridiculous, but he didn’t want to take any unnecessary chances if he didn’t have to. The fear of failure - because that’s what it was - was paralyzing him. If he was going to leave the safety of the nest, he needed to do it right the first time. His mom would never live it down if he had to come crawling back to her. Hell,  _ he’d _ never live it down.

Jean crawled down from the ladder after finally fixing the stubborn shingle and admired his work. He hadn’t realized just how far up he’d been; there was no way his mother would have been able to do that on her own. His smile faded.

There was a much bigger reason as to why he stayed in place.

“Jean-boy, come on inside and take a break. I made lemonade for us.”

Jean, even without any witnesses, blushed furiously as his mother stood smiling proudly on the porch, two glasses filled with her homemade lemonade in cups he’d been drinking out of since he was a kid.

“C-Coming…”

* * *

The next day, Jean arrived at Titan’s around noon. He had a closing shift; not his favorite, nor anyone’s favorite, but preferable given it was freight day. Coming in late meant there was a good possibility everything was already sorted and done, and after all the things he had fixed around the house the day before, he was counting on doing the least amount of work possible.

Obviously, Jean didn’t exactly have the best work ethic at Titan’s, which he felt had snubbed him one too many times out of a promotion. Over the last few years, Jean’s lack of morale had mostly impacted his punctuality, and though it had been gradual, others had definitely taken notice - but only one seemed to actually care.

Situated beside the time clock was Eren Yeager, eagerly counting out-loud the seconds appearing on the screen.

“Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty…”

In what had become an almost-daily ritual, Eren was timing Jean to the last possible minute he could be late without being disciplined. From the sales floor, Mikasa Ackerman and Armin Artlert - Eren’s best friends - looked on with disappointment.

“Not today, Yeager,” Jean said smugly, gently pushing Eren aside so he could clock in. The look of defeat on Eren’s face wasn’t enough to satisfy him, however. “How many seconds before it was official?”

“Seven seconds,” Eren muttered bitterly, before adding, “You know, just because they give us a five minute window to clock in doesn’t mean you can do it  _ every day _ .”

Jean scowled. “Sorry, does your name tag say ‘manager’? Because until it does, I don’t think when I clock in is any of your damn business.”

Before Jean could realize what was happening, Mikasa had swept in to hold Eren back. As he uselessly protested with her, Armin, all but 5’3”, rushed between them.

“Guys! The cameras!” Armin warned, to which Jean rolled his eyes.

“Nobody ever watches those damn things, Armin.”

“Annie does!” Armin said of their elusive loss prevention assistant, Annie Leonhart.

“Does not!” Jean argued, “She just sleeps in there the whole time, I’ve seen her!”

“Let go of me!” Eren demanded of Mikasa, who quietly released him.

Jean's expression softened as he glanced at her, his chest suddenly going sore, just as it had done when they had been in school together, and just as it did every time he saw her. Mikasa was one high school crush he’d never get over. As Eren stomped off, his words fell on deaf ears as Jean continued to look after Mikasa, noting she had cut her hair again - shorter than it had ever been before. He grimaced. Sometimes he really wished Mikasa would just  _ let _ Eren punch him already, but it never happened. Jean liked to imagine it was because Mikasa cared about him, but it was definitely because she cared about Eren more.

* * *

Jean refrained from saying another word, however tempting it was, and made his way out onto the sales floor. Once out of everyone’s sight, he stopped in the middle of the main aisle to adjust his vest. It was faded, navy-blue with the Titan’s logo branded on it in three different places, though it never stopped customers from asking him if he worked there.

He took another moment to himself to look upon the fluorescent-bathed linoleum that he had grown to hate so much over the years. Over the radio, some dated pop music was playing, as per usual. It was  _ always _ on the pop station; God-forbid they ever switched to rock from time-to-time. Jean shook his head, accepting his fate for the next eight and a half hours as Ed Sheeran’s “Shape of You” droned on in a seemingly never-ending chorus.

As Jean finally made his way to his department, located in the very back of the store, he took notice of Sasha Braus over at the mini-bar. She looked about as apathetic as he did, carelessly sipping away on a sample of vegan whey protein; no doubt a slow day.

“Hey. Protein Girl. Isn’t drinking too much of that stuff… bad?” Jean asked.

Sasha answered with only a shrug and continued to drink, on what was no doubt her fifty-third “sample” of the day.

Jean smiled slightly. He admired Sasha’s mischief as much as he envied it. Rumor had it that she had a stack of write-ups in the office about five inches thick, and what was more remarkable than her continued employment with Titan’s was the fact that she didn’t let any of it get to her. Jean had only ever received a write-up once, two years ago, for arguing with Eren in front of a customer. Even though Eren had been written up as well, Jean loathed the fact the record even  _ existed _ . It didn’t matter the reason. He just hated screwing up more than anyone on the planet. Second-to- _ maybe _ Eren himself, and that was about the only thing they had in common.

Eren had always been a pain, even back in their high school days, though Jean had to admit (if only to himself) that the clothing department never looked better since Eren came on board at Titan’s. It was  _ strange _ it looked so good, considering Eren’s constant griping. When Eren wasn’t actively trying to find ways to get Jean fired, he was often complaining about the life they were missing beyond the store walls and how his department - clothing - was the hardest department to work in the entire store. Well, the last Jean checked, gym pants didn’t weigh a hundred pounds, which was - on a good day - the merchandise Jean was up against over in gym equipment.

Jean supposed he could appreciate Eren in short bursts, but otherwise found him to be incredibly annoying and could never resist criticizing him. But unfortunately, this had isolated Jean from the rest of the crew, who not only seemed to  _ like  _ Eren, but looked up to him. Especially Mikasa, who was, as far as Jean was concerned, the most gorgeous cashier in the entire world. One of the other resident heart-throb cashiers, Krista Lenz, was a good runner-up, but Jean admittedly had a thing for dark hair.

Merely having a preference wasn’t enough, though. Or was having his hair styled and re-styled, or was showing off his abs every time they went down to the lake, and _certainly_ not wearing cologne (he’d never make that mistake again).

Maybe this was the  _ real _ reason Eren pissed him off so much. Where after millions of efforts, Jean could only achieve brief hellos and goodbyes with Mikasa, Eren could ramble away for days about - hell,  _ anything _ \- and she’d take in his every word. There was just no denying they had a particular closeness that only childhood friends could have. Nothing wrong with that, but to Jean, it seemed downright one-sided as Eren hardly seemed to care about Mikasa at times. Maybe Jean was just _that_ biased.

If there was  any exception to Eren’s gravitational pull, it was in the form of Armin. Despite being Eren’s best friend, Armin was pleasant, level-headed, and furthermore  _ way _ too smart to be working at a soul-sucking factory like Titan's. Whenever Jean felt like he was butting heads with everyone else, Armin was his saving grace, always rationalizing the situation and pin-pointing who was wrong and why. It never seemed to be out of any particular favoritism, either, just his own logic. Jean liked that about Armin.  As a coworker, Armin was always professional and  _ damn _ if he didn’t know how to turn around the unhappiest of customers. He was seriously one of the only people Jean was actually  _ relieved _ to be scheduled with, and that was saying a lot considering Jean’s considerable expectations of everyone: high. Though, not nearly as high as the ones he held for himself.

* * *

Jean had just about reached his corner of the world before he was whistled at from the neighboring cycling department.

“Ay, Jeenie!”

Jean glanced over to spot Connie, teeth grit, carrying a monster of a mountain bike that was twice his size.

“A little help?” Connie managed to grunt.

Luckily, Jean was able to react quick enough to catch the bike before Connie dropped it.

“Idiot, what were you thinking?” Jean said, echoed by a loud chuckle.

Connie and Jean turned to see Ymir, the janitor, passing by with a dust mop, grinning ear-to-ear.

Ymir was something else. She wasn’t originally from Paradis and had moved in a year prior, and in that time, nobody knew where she lived or even what her last name was. They only ever saw her at the store, and when she wasn’t pretending to clean, she was usually towards the front, flirting with Krista. Jean had to give the mystery lady credit for her persistence, in which his own was second-to-none.

“Go ahead and laugh, toilet cleaner!” Connie barked at her, while Jean took on the full weight of the bike.

In response, Ymir slowly approached them, and in one quick jab, bunted Connie with the end of the dust mop, dowsing him in a cloud of filth before continuing on her way.

It took a lot for Jean not to laugh.

“You’re lucky Levi’s not here!” Connie called after her, sputtering from the dust before coming to terms with the damage she had dealt to him with the mop. “Oh man, I just cleaned this thing, too...”

Jean finished hooking the bike up on the only empty hook on the rack, which he assumed was what Connie was trying to do earlier.

Connie looked up, impressed. “Geez, dude!”

“Working in my department has its perks,” said Jean, in a rare moment of store pride. “You’d better go clean up.”

“Right,” Connie sighed.

Now over twenty minutes into his shift, Jean finally arrived in  _ his _ department. His cohorts, Marlowe and Hitch, weren’t very pleased. Especially Hitch.

“I didn’t know you transferred, Jean!” Hitch exclaimed, clapping as Marlowe looked up from a box of freight he was pricing.

“Transferred…?” Jean repeated, before the sarcasm dawned on him. “What? Connie? I was just helping him out. Relax.”

“The people you should be helping out are the people in your department,” Hitch argued as she tossed a price gun to Jean.

“That’s not true,” Jean said, “The whole store is a team - ”

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from  _ you _ ,” Hitch said, “No matter, though. We saved you a box.”

Jean followed her gesture to a lone box that was filled with 1 pound, pink dumbbells - 100 in all. He was speechless, unable to believe she was being serious.

“Don’t look that way. We made sure to leave you the light ones,” Hitch went on, grinning. “Didn’t want you straining yourself.”

As far as Jean was concerned, Hitch was one dark brown wig away from being Eren Yeager. As she caught sight of a customer, she sauntered off, leaving him alone with Marlowe who looked on sympathetically.

“I told her not to,” Marlowe said.

“I’m not worried,” said Jean, kneeling onto the floor with the price gun. More than half the weights would be back-stocked. Why were there so many? It had to be for an upcoming sale...

“She’s been in a mood all day,” Marlowe explained quietly.

Jean wasn’t sure if they were secretly dating or what, but they always came to each other’s defense over anything and everything.

Marlowe continued, “I think she’s just nervous about the move.”

Jean looked up. “Wait, Hitch is moving?”

“Yeah, next week,” Marlowe said, equally surprised, “Guess she didn’t tell you, huh?”

“I don’t think she told  _ anyone _ , Marlowe. Might want to check it’s not a trade secret,” Jean teased, “Where she’s off to?”

“Marley.”

Jean stopped smiling. Not very many of them had the luxury of moving, let alone to  _ Marley _ .

“By herself?” Jean prodded, digging back into the box of dumbbells.

“Oh no, her and her parents,” Marlowe said, “Her dad got a new job there.”

Jean felt a little bit better that it wasn’t necessarily on Hitch’s own accord. Always self-conscious about living with his mother in Paradis, imagining one of his coworkers moving to Marley by themselves would be crushing, and only further proof he was doing something wrong.

“How do you feel about it?” Jean found himself asking.

“What do you mean?”

Jean paused. “I don’t know. You two are practically connected at the hip. Aren’t you bummed out?”

“Oh, no! I’m fine. Actually, next month I’m… moving there, too.”

Jean froze again. “That... so? With your folks, too, or...?”

“Nah, they’re staying put. I don’t think they’ll ever leave here, honestly. You know how they are.”

“So, you and Hitch gonna get a place together…?”

“Oh! No, not at all. I’m on my own.”

“In  _ Marley _ ?” Jean repeated, “Sorry to ask, but  _ how exactly? _ ”

“Well - savings, mostly. That, and well - Hitch’s dad’s new job is a realtor, so he found a sweet spot near the downtown area that’s pretty doable for me.”

“What about work?”

“I applied at a few places already. I know landing a job won’t be a problem for me.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?” Jean asked, “Not having a job already lined up? I mean, what if... you can’t find a job before your savings run out? Then what?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be good, but I’m sure I’d figure  _ something _ out. Even if it meant coming back here.”

“Wouldn’t that bother you, though?”

“Sorry? I don’t follow...”

Jean sighed. “Wouldn’t  _ failing _ like that bother you? Making a big move, only to have to come crawling back home?”

“Geez. You make it sound pretty awful when you put it like that, Jean,” Marlowe smiled. “But to answer your question, no. I wouldn’t. Because it wouldn’t be like failing to me. Some things in life work out, some things don’t. It doesn’t mean you failed. Failing is when you don’t even bother trying.”

At Marlowe’s words, Jean watched as his world suddenly turned to black and white. He swallowed hard. It was as if Marlowe had just lifted a veil off something he had always known deep-down: something unknown and unpleasant that he had been refusing to face.

* * *

When the store closed and Jean took in the warm, summer night’s air, the sky above him littered with stars, he felt different. No longer afraid, just fiercely determined and faintly hopeful. He needed to hold onto this feeling before it slipped away. As soon as he got home, he was going to tell his mother that he was going to start looking for a place. He smiled up at the sky, peacefully taking in his new resolve… at least until he felt two sets of hands snatch his arms and tug him backwards, shaking him from his epiphany.

“Jean, we’re going to the lake - come with us!” said Sasha, unaffected by her day of consuming whey protein.

Connie was right beside her, grinning mischievously as always.

“It's dark, though. Lake’s closed,” Jean said.

“Captain Obvious, right here,” Connie complained. “We’re sneaking in -  _ duh _ .”

“Yeah,  _ duh _ , Jean,” Sasha echoed.

“Just you two, or what?”

“Nah, we’re all going,” Connie said, pointing to the rest of Titan’s closing crew gathered in the parking lot, which consisted of Ymir (eh), Krista (not bad), Armin (really?), Eren ( ugh ), and, by default,  _ Mikasa _ …

Jean inwardly cursed his inner high-school self as he imagined Mikasa sitting by herself at the lakeshore, bathed in moonlight and longing for someone to talk to who  _ wasn’t  _ Eren. Jean thought about how he’d gently ask her a _ “Mind if I join you?” _ to which she’d probably nod,  _ “Sure.” _ They wouldn’t say anything for a while, just take in the view of the lake, shimmering beneath the moon, while the rest of the group were off either playing in the water or passing beer around while Armin nervously played look-out. Eventually, Mikasa would ask him a question, opening a door to a hundred more questions, and they’d wind up talking and laughing until the sky began to lighten. Mikasa would look him in the eyes -  _ really  _ look at him, before someone called her away. Jean would be disappointed, but understanding, and as Mikasa walked away, he’d catch her smiling back at him...

“JEAN!”

Jean was suddenly pulled out of his daydream and back in front of Titan’s with Connie and Sasha, who were back to tugging on his arms.

“Are you coming or what?”

Jean, still as love-struck as a teenager, didn’t protest.

* * *

The trip to Lake Jinae was achieved in Ymir’s seen-better-days Savana, a dated white mini-van with tacky silver pin-striping down either side which perfectly sat eight people. Ymir claimed she’d bought the van for only $390 from a neighbor, and at the time, it wouldn’t even start. A lost cause in most cases, thus the desperately low price, but it turned out that when Ymir wasn’t mopping up protein shake spills at Titan’s, she was a pretty decent mechanic.

The inside of the van was a lot better than the outside, but it still sported an ample amount of cigarette burns into the upholstery. The stench of old smoke and several years of abandonment still lingered, which Ymir’s rainbow collection of air fresheners did little to soothe. Still, it was saving them the suspicion of a line of cars heading to the lake  _ and _ allowing Jean to sit directly behind Mikasa.

Jean continued to imagine any and all possibilities of talking to her one-on-one, oblivious to the main conversation taking place in the van: an argument over which beer to get.

“I don’t really like IPAs,” Krista said.

“Oh, come on. Don’t you want your beer to taste like  _ actual _ beer, and not that sugary-fruity crap?” Connie said, to which Ymir glanced at him in the rear-view.

“Do you have a problem with Krista’s drink preference?”

The tune changed. “N-No! I like… fruity beer. It’s fine! I’m good with anything!”

“Connie, you  _ hate _ that kinda beer! You said it’s the worst!” said Sasha, causing Connie to sink between her and Jean to avoid Ymir’s death glare in the rear-view.

“Why don’t you just get both kinds?” Mikasa suggested quietly, snapping Jean’s attention back to the present.

“Yeah!” Jean chimed in loudly, gaining knowing looks from Sasha and Connie.

“Uh, guys…?” Armin suddenly murmured, immediately drowned out by Eren claiming they were making too big of a deal out of the whole thing and that it was meant to be a small kick-back, not a party.

“Think we don’t know why you agreed to come?” Connie whispered to Jean, who quickly elbowed him.

“Ixnay alkingtay,” whispered Jean through grit teeth, pointing his head towards Mikasa.

“Guys?” Armin said again.

“Is that a Harry Potter spell?” Sasha asked of Jean, and Jean wasn’t sure if she was teasing or serious. “What’s he sayin’, Connie?”

Armin continued, a little louder. “Hey, guys - ”

“Stop talking, idiots, right now,” said Jean to Connie and Sasha, forming a fist as Mikasa tilted her head, taking notice to the commotion building behind her.

“GUYS!” Armin suddenly shouted, causing Ymir to hard-brake and lurch everyone forward.

“Fucking hell, Artlert!” Ymir yelled, recovering her speed.

Jean had slammed against the bench in front of him, while Connie and Sasha were somehow able to hold one another in place. Mikasa, mildly bumped from Jean’s impact, immediately looked over the back of her seat as Jean sat back up.

“Jean, are you okay?”

Star-struck, Jean just nodded, unaware of the blood streaming from his nose.

“Damn, man!” Connie shrieked, scooting away from him.

Sasha leaned around Connie to see. “Wow, you really clocked yourself!”

“What’s going on?” Ymir asked from upfront.

“Nothing, Horseface just hit his big-ass nose,” Eren answered, chuckling to himself.

“I’m so sorry, Jean!” cried Armin, “It’s my fault, I’m sorry everyone...”

Eren snorted. “Don’t be, that’s hilarious. High-five, Armin!”

“Eren…” Mikasa warned gently as Krista handed her a box of tissues from the glove box.

Jean did his best to ignore Eren’s remarks so as not to bleed more, mildly wondering if he had broken his nose. This was  _ definitely _ a sign that he should’ve just gone home; hopefully not an indication of what was still to come.

“So, Armin. Now that you have our undivided attention, what the  _ hell _ was that about?” Ymir asked.

“I’m really sorry everybody. It’s just - well, I’ve been trying to tell you guys… it’s five past ten already. The stores are all closed.”

After a long pause came a small chorus of realization: “Ohh…”

Eren sighed and placed his hands behind his head. “Just as well. Bad enough we’re sneaking in with a group this big, let alone with a few cases of booze. Half of us work tomorrow, anyways.”

“Never stopped me,” Ymir quipped, before Jean could.

Jean just continued to soothe his nose until they eventually arrived at the west side of the lake, near a big open field - Orvud Meadow - that the town usually reserved for carnivals and other special events. In fact, it was still littered with trash and streamers from the recent Fourth of July bash.

Once Ymir turned off the van, the only light they had to guide them was the moon and their cell phone screens.

“Alright, make it quick, okay?” Eren muttered, once again going on to comment about how there were way too many of them to be doing this while giving Jean major side-eye.

“Maybe next time don’t share your secret kick-back plans with the entire store,” Connie said flatly, and for a moment, Jean felt like a proud father.

There was a semi-secluded spot right on the bank that they set as their destination, out of view from some of the lakeside houses across the water and a good distance away from the main trails circling through the park. It was partially concealed by a wall of reeds, with log benches situated in a semi-circle, placed there by generations long before them. Carved into the logs were hearts and couple’s initials, and other, more... indecent phrases and symbols. Jean was particularly fond of a faded, “J+M” that had been scratched on the end of the log nearest to the bank that he had discovered in the tenth grade, having believed it was the universe and destiny aligning him with Mikasa.

God, was teenage graffiti ever wrong.

“Just so we’re clear, if patrol comes by, it’s everyone for themselves,” Ymir announced, “With the exception of Krista, if you don’t make it back to my car before I do, I’m leaving without you.”

“Fair enough, we’ll just take Krista hostage,” Sasha said, shrugging, and no sooner could she relish in her words, Ymir was towering over her.

“You try something like that and I’ll toss you into the lake,” Ymir said seriously, to which Sasha glared right back, fueled purely by protein.

Ymir’s face and tone changed as soon as she sat back next to Krista and hooked an arm around her. Krista didn’t seem to mind and just sat there, smiling brightly and telling Ymir she better not do anything of the sort. Jean wasn’t sure if he’d ever wrap his head around just how bold and casual Ymir was, but whatever the case, it seemed to be working.

He faintly wondered how Mikasa would react if he approached her like that.

“Mikasa,” He’d say, “You probably already know this, but I’ve been in love with you since high school - can I take you out to dinner, just once, before I  _ disintegrate? _ ”

No, that was too much.

“Do you want to catch a movie and have dinner sometime?” Was a classic go-to. But knowing her, she’d go on to ask who else was coming and Jean wouldn’t have the wear-withal to say, “I was thinking _just us_.”

Not to mention the snowball’s-chance-in-Hell that Mikasa would want to go home with him… to his  _ mom’s house _ .  _ Ugh _ .

Jean eased back slightly and let the group fall into a conversation about the last time they’d been out at the lake, his thoughts finally easing past Mikasa and back to Marlowe’s advice about moving out. Now that the idea had some time to settle with him, he was a little surprised to find that he still felt just as optimistic as he’d been earlier. He was really going to do this, wasn’t he?

Jean quietly got up and walked over to the water’s edge, mostly unnoticed as Connie and Sasha had stolen a lot of attention by going into a story about a monster that supposedly lived in the lake. He’d heard it enough to already know that the monster was actually a collection of garbage that had caught on a fishing line.

As Jean looked out at the lake, he wondered what his mother would think of him moving. Would she be for it - supportive and overly-involved? Or would she go quiet and try to talk him out of it? He really couldn’t say, as he’d never expressed to her his desire to move out before. It wasn’t as though he was moving all the way to Marley, like Hitch and Marlowe, but  _ still _ . His mother was alone. He was literally all she had. And there was always a chance that it could come back…

Cancer.

Two years ago, she had fought and won...

“Jean, are you okay?”

“Huh?” Jean looked with a little surprise to see that Armin had joined him.

Armin was meekly looking down. “You’ve been really quiet since you hit your head. Are you okay?”

“Y-Yeah, I’m fine…” Jean said, absentmindedly wiping his nose, which had stopped bleeding a while ago, “Maybe a little out-of-it...”

“I’m really sorry,” Armin apologized again, and before he could go on, Jean cut him off.

“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault. Blame Ymir’s shitty seat belts. Seriously, I don’t think that thing is street legal.”

Armin chuckled for a moment, but it wasn’t enough to subdue the remorse in his eyes.

“I’m really alright,” Jean said again, “Promise it’s not that. Just have things on my mind right now.”

“Oh?” Armin seemed to perk up slightly, “Nothing too bad, right?”

“Not really. Just… life stuff,” Jean half-smirked and placed a hand on Armin’s shoulder. “Thanks for checking on me, though.”

Armin smiled, finally reassured.

“Hey!” Connie called suddenly, drawing their attention back to the group, “Unless you two are gonna jump in, get back over here - Eren’s gonna tell us a story.”

“A  _ ghost _ story!” Sasha added, in a voice so low and creepy that it caused Krista to lean uncomfortably into Ymir.

“Oh,  _ joy _ ,” Jean replied sarcastically, gaining another small chuckle from Armin, who, instead of sitting back next to Eren, joined himself, Connie, and Sasha.

“Ghost story?” Armin asked quietly, “It’s not even August yet.”

“What, does it have to be fall to tell a good ghost story?” Eren questioned defensively.

“I mean, usually…” said Connie, to which Sasha play-slapped his knee.

“Guys, shut up, I wanna hear it anyways!”

“ _ All of you _ shut up before I go drown myself,” Ymir spat, before looking at Eren expectantly.

Eren, after recollecting himself, leaned forward. “Well, the thing is… this story isn’t just a ghost story. It’s a  _ true  _ story… and it all happened right here, in Paradis.”

“OooooOOooooOOoo - ”

“Connie, Sasha. Quiet,” Jean told them, even though it was technically in defense of Eren. What could he say? He was curious, too - anything to get his mind off of things.

Eren sighed one last time and gave Jean a quick nod before starting again.

“This is the story about the house on Trost Street...”


	5. The Dare

_There’s a house on Trost Street, unlike all the others._

_It creaks and shrieks and there’s blood in all the shutters._

Paradis, South Dakota was once the site of one of the bloodiest domestic massacres in the nation. One of many disputes between the United States Army and indigenous tribes; often a deeply uncomfortable history lesson, but history none-the-less...

_They say you’re cursed as soon as you’re inside,_

_They say it’s the wrath of everyone who died._

It’s said that when the smoke finally cleared, hundreds laid dead in the snow from either side. In the spring, the bark of the nearby trees turned a copper color, as their roots took in the blood of the fallen, preserved in the snow melt. Years passed, the trees grew taller, memories faded, yet the trees remained _red_.

A town began to grow a few miles away, Paradis, and wood was needed. Most of the trees were taken from a spot near the lake: good, tall trees with healthy wood, leaving a big meadow for people to gather in their place.

It would be named Orvud Meadow.

_Those who stay, never stay long,_

_And those who do, wind up gone._

A rich family came to Paradis from a bigger city, looking to build something that was purely their own. Despite their wealth, they opted for more inexpensive conveniences - cheap land and cheaper wood. Instead of the costly pines around Orvud Meadow and Lake Jiane, they opted for the neglected and overgrown forest just north of the town: the site of the decades-old battle.

Some say they didn’t know any better, but most say they were warned.

_“Those are blood trees up there. You shouldn’t use them.”_

_“No such thing.”_

Whether they knew, didn’t know, or just didn’t care, the family built an exceptional house out of the blood trees - one that most of the people of Paradis had never seen before: a grand Victorian. Every detail was perfected over the course of two years, and it stood as one of the most beautiful houses in the town… for a time.

_One death, two deaths, three deaths, or more,_

_A history of murder behind it’s doors._

Tragedy struck the house only a few years after the house's completion. The family’s only son mysteriously died. No one could figure out why, but the family knew: it was the curse of the blood trees.

They had seen things over the years, you see. Shadows that weren’t their own, items falling over in empty rooms, and disembodied whispers in the dead of the night. They had been too proud to admit the house was cursed over the two years they lived there, but they had known all along, and paid the ultimate price for it...

The family abandoned the house afterwards and were never seen again, and the house sat for nearly a decade before someone eventually staked a claim on it.

For the next century, nothing unusual came of the house. Families came and went, with not so much of a single bump in the night. This continued until the story of the original owners seemed nothing more than a town myth. 

Until, just fourteen years ago, death struck the house again: another only son, found strangled in the basement, a day before Halloween.

The police treated it like a murder, but everyone who knew the story knew it was the house.

_Don’t go inside, don’t let yourself see,_

_Or you’ll be next at the house on Trost Street._

“You can still see the house today,” Eren finished, just above a whisper for effect, “But no one dares to go in, and some say you shouldn’t even _look_ at it.”

A stunned silence, then some quiet, off-beat clapping filled the air, though not everyone in the group was impressed.

“Pfft. You know, if it’s so messed up, then why don’t they just demolish it?” Connie asked dryly.

“Because of the curse! They’re too afraid to,” Eren said defensively, and Jean crossed his arms as he tried to think of more flaws to point out in Eren’s version of the story.

“It’s real, Connie. One time I drove by it and I got chills all over,” said Sasha.

“You did _not_ ,” Connie shot back.

“I swear!” Sasha insisted, before looking to Krista, “You were with me, remember? Remember how freaky it was?”

“A little bit, but…” Krista said, “Only because of the stories. It’s a really beautiful house other than that. It’s a shame, really.”

“Beautiful? I kept picturing an old, shacked-up piece of shit,” Ymir said, laughing.

“Kinda like your car?” Connie chided and Jean couldn’t help but hold back a laugh; Springer was on a roll tonight... and possibly setting himself up to walk home.

“I’ve been by it, too, and Krista’s right, it actually looks good… for as old as it is,” Eren said.

“That means someone’s been maintaining it,” Jean said matter-of-factly, smirking as he looked at Eren, “So much for a curse.”

Eren just glared. “Shut up, Jean. It’s true.”

“It’s _a story_ ,” Jean countered, reveling in how easily he was getting under Eren’s skin.

“I dare you to go inside, then!” Eren shouted, standing up.

“Fine,” Jean said, unaffected.

_“Tonight,”_ Eren added.

A gasp was shared through the group.

“Alright, let’s go,” Jean said, still grinning. Eren seemed to falter a little, somewhat shocked that Jean wasn’t backing out - Jean just couldn't resist.

“Oh, no, no - this isn’t a good idea, guys,” Armin spoke up finally, “If someone owns that house, it’d be trespassing. We’re not teenagers anymore, either. That’s a real conviction we’re talking about, way worse than getting caught out here - ”

“So we won’t get caught, then,” Eren said to Armin, “Besides, it’s not like Jean’ll actually go inside.”

Jean, having had enough, grabbed Eren by his shirt. “You really think I’m scared of some dumbass house? I won’t just go inside - I’ll spend the night there!”

Eren shrugged Jean away. “Your funeral, horse-face.”

“Oh, guys - ” Armin tried, but his voice fell on deaf ears.

Mikasa, who usually broke Jean and Eren apart, had gone quiet - more quiet than usual.

“Sheesh. I’ll drive you idiots over there, but only because I want to see the house. I honestly don't give a shit about your little kiddie-dare,” Ymir said, fishing out her keys from her pocket.

* * *

Situated by itself at the very end of Trost Street was the infamous house of local legend, partially hidden by two overgrown, purposely-placed oak trees. Unlike the boarded up house of horrors that everyone always pictured it to be, the house was in fact, just as Eren and Krista both described: beautiful. Unlike the carbon-copy flat-roof architecture that seemed to make up their entire town, _this_ was a Victorian. Complete with a turret, a complex slate roof, banded windows, and a giant wrap-around porch with intricate iron railing. All that was missing were multi-colored panels and framing, but under the lone streetlight nearby, a modern gray or brown seemed to have taken over the house… quite recently, in fact, as the smell of fresh paint still lingered in the air.

As Jean stared up at it, he was a little beside himself. Here he thought that he had seen everything there was to Paradis, and now there was this piece he’d never bothered to look at before.

Eren’s version of the story hadn’t been the first Jean had heard. There were always little renditions and spins on it, but it was always the same idea: the house was cursed for some reason, and people had died inside. There were versions where the entire family died. There were versions in which the family killed other people. There were versions in which _nobody_ in the house died, and it was all a giant hoax to keep people away from the property. Jean had always leaned towards the latter, but now, standing before the property in the dead of night, he wasn’t so sure anymore, because as beautiful as it was, there was definitely something… _off_ about it.

Despite the modern maintenance, and tacky “For Rent” sign placed in the front lawn, there was a particular stillness in the air, uninterrupted by their group gathered in front. It was a heavy stillness, much like the feeling of humidity. Even the chorus of crickets and frogs outside was somehow suppressed.

“Who would rent a place like this?” Krista said of the ‘For Rent’ sign.

“Well, if the price is right…” Ymir snickered.

“No way!” Krista shook her head, “Maybe if the price was ‘free’, but even _then_ I don’t know if I’d do it… it _is_ beautiful, though.”

“It’s _creepy_ ,” Sasha corrected as she ducked behind Connie, who also seemed to have picked up on the feeling emanating from the property.

“You really gonna go in there?” Connie asked Jean without looking at him, his voice quiet and serious.

Jean couldn’t let himself falter. He answered Connie’s question by walking onto the stone pathway that led to the porch. Everyone stilled as Jean took another step, then another. The closer he got to the house, the thicker the air seemed to get. It had to just be in his head though, right?

“I can’t believe he’s doing this,” Armin whined, “Eren, you have to call this off.”

Eren just crossed his arms and smirked. “Armin, come on. I know he won't go in.”

Armin looked around the group, finding very little support with the exception of Mikasa, who he shared a small look with.

"I really don't like this at all," Armin said.

“You’re not the only one,” Mikasa whispered.

Jean exhaled as he stepped onto the porch, which creaked underneath his shoes. Behind him, the group had gone quiet in anticipation. Every nerve in his body was begging him to turn around and leave, but he couldn’t grant Eren that pleasure just yet. He didn’t believe in the stories. He never had. The only thing really scaring him was the idea of someone driving by and asking them what the hell they were doing. Even though Trost Street was pretty isolated from the main blocks of Paradis, he knew he had to hurry this thing along.

Jean looked from the freshly-painted white door before him towards his left, where the porch slanted around the curved exterior of the turret. It was there that Jean noticed the single, half-opened window.

_‘You’ve gotta be kidding me…’_ He thought.

Jean hadn’t counted on actually finding a way in. _Shit._ Maybe just a quick peek inside would satisfy everyone and he could go home, like he should've done in the first place. Jean reached towards the windowsill, then slowly lifted the glass. Unlike the rest of the house, the window was brand new and slid up easily and quietly. He leaned down, looking into the room of the Trost house, met with nothing but his own shadow looming across the wooden floor. The rest of the room was pitch black. He swallowed hard, becoming of the re-aware of the heavy atmosphere around him.

“Holy shit, he’s actually going in!” Ymir realized, her persistent smirk fading.

“Is he crazy?” said Sasha, clinging hard to Connie who watched on nervously.

“Eren, that’s good enough, just call it off already - before he actually goes in there!” Armin pleaded, as Eren watched on, stunned.

“I didn’t think he’d actually do it…” Eren said, no longer smiling.

“Call it off,” Armin repeated, " _Now._ "

“Uh, guys?” asked Krista.

Sasha turned away. “I can’t look. This is too much, seriously - ”

“I think a cop’s coming,” Krista announced.

“Oh, sh - ”

As the spotlight from the patrol car hit the group, Jean cursed to himself and dove through the window and ducked down, heart thundering in his chest. A muffled voice made an order through the loud speaker, and Jean watched as red and blue lights suddenly started to dance across the room. This was _not_ good. He shut his eyes. What a stupid, stupid idea...

One agonizingly quiet minute went by until Jean finally heard a familiar chuckle. He felt his heart leap. Carefully, he peeked through the bottom corner of the window at the scene outside. Everyone was standing just as they were, with a single police car parked diagonally in front of Ymir’s van. Laughing with the group was none other than Officer Hannes.

Hannes, twenty-year veteran of the local police force, had been scooping their group up out of trouble since they had been kids - Eren especially. There was literally no better officer who could have caught them out here than him. Jean sighed in relief. If he was lucky, Hannes would brush it right off and let them go…

“Kinda early in the year to be checking out this place, don’t you think?” Hannes was saying as he looked down at Eren, “Most kids usually wait until Halloween.”

“Well, we were bored,” said Eren, as several heads nodded eagerly behind him.

“That so?”

“Really, _really_ bored,” Sasha added quickly.

Hannes looked over them, eyes narrowing. Armin noticed his suspicion, and stepped forward.

“Uh, Hannes! You haven’t met Ymir yet, have you?” Armin asked, “We were just showing her. She thought we were making it up…”

Jean grinned to himself - _thank you, Armin_ \- and continued to listen on, eyes shut tight.

“Ah, a skeptic, huh?” Hannes said, eyeing Ymir before settling his sight back to the house, “Well, it depends on what you believe in, I suppose…”

Armin nudged Ymir. She glared briefly, before going along with it.

“I don’t believe in jack. What about you? You’re a cop, so you’re bound to know a thing or two about this place. Did people really die in there?”

Hannes fell quiet for a moment as he looked over the property, prompting Jean to peek again. Damn it, why were they taking so long? It was so hot that he could feel his sweat dripping down his forehead, and the entire place smelled like fresh paint and varnish. It was nauseating. His only solace was the small bit of fresh air flowing through the window.

“Hannes?”

With Hannes looking at the house again, Jean sat back down on the floor, finally daring to observe the room around him. In short flashes of white, red, and blue, he could make out the kitchen area directly in front of him, and to his right, a staircase. The room was empty, save for a collection of tarp and paint buckets in the corner. That explained the smell; someone was taking care of the house and prepping it to be a rental - no doubt that was why the windows had been left open.

“There was… one,” Hannes said quietly, cupping his chin thoughtfully, “Had to be maybe… thirteen years ago, now. Maybe fourteen...”

Ymir’s expression softened. “You’re serious?”

“I was first on the scene,” Hannes said, voice stern, “A young kid, probably around your age. Twenty-something. All of you were in elementary school at the time, so I doubt you remember it. For a couple months, it was all this damn town was talking about.”

Jean could barely hear anything from outside anymore. Why had everyone gotten so quiet?

“What happened?” Eren asked.

“Y’know, sometimes I still find myself asking that…” Hannes said, “The official report chalks it up to natural causes - an asthma attack, but…”

“But…?”

Hannes rubbed the back of his neck, grimacing. “It was the only time I ever had a disagreement with the medical examiner.”

“Why’s that?”

“It didn’t make sense to me, mostly,” Hannes sighed, “I knew the kid. He never had asthma. He was an athlete - best quarterback Paradis High had ever seen. Had a scholarship and everything...”

“He was a quarterback at our high school?” Connie repeated.

“No way,” echoed Sasha.

Krista tilted her head. “What was his name?”

“Marco Bodt,” Hannes sighed, “I’m surprised none of you knew about him. He took that school to the finals! Are you telling me that in the four years you went there, none of you ever checked out the trophy display?”

“There was a trophy display?” asked Connie.

“Geez, what’s with this generation…” Hannes sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose “Yeah, I’m sure it’s still there. Try asking the front office if you ever swing by for a visit. Should be the biggest one in the case. It’s no wonder we haven’t been to the finals since…”

“What do you think happened to him?” Armin asked.

“At first, I was with his family. Thought foul-play. Then I learned about something called “adult-onset asthma”. That, combined with no other evidence… well, as hard as it was, I had to let my personal sympathies go.”

Eren crossed his arms. “Marco’s family probably didn’t like that, did they?”

“Understatement. They were adamant that our conclusion was wrong, that the investigation was botched, that the medical examiner was missing something. They swore up and down there was a murderer on the loose in Paradis, and for us to say their boy died from asthma was an insult…”

“What ended up happening?" Sasha asked.

“After a few months, Paradis got tired of their story," Hannes explained, "People started to complain, saying the Bodt family were fear mongers, that they just needed to accept the facts instead of scaring everybody to death...”

“That’s pretty harsh…” Krista said.

“Well, the holidays were coming up, and nobody wanted to imagine some strangler was on the loose. Halloween had already been ruined that year. People wanted to enjoy themselves again. People wanted things to go back to normal. The whole city turned on that family, and right before Christmas, they were gone. They never said a word, just up’d and left… can’t say I blame them,” Hannes finished, before gesturing towards the ‘For Rent’ sign, “At any rate, I’m kinda glad to see someone’s moving on with the whole thing. And all of you should, too. Get on home before your folks start calling the station.”

Eren smiled. “Hannes, we're not kids. None of us live at home anymore…”

“Well, _Jean_ does…” Connie chirped.

“Hey, I thought somebody was missing!” Hannes exclaimed suddenly, “Where _is_ Jean?”

Everyone glared at Connie before Mikasa stepped forward.

“He went straight home after work,” She answered quickly.

“He doesn’t like worrying his mom,” Sasha added.

“Total momma’s boy that Jean,” Connie chuckled, loud enough for Jean to hear.

“Considering what they went through I don't blame him,” Hannes said, before anyone could question what he meant, “You should be grateful for your mothers. Moved out or not.”

Eren and Armin glanced at Mikasa worriedly as she turned back towards Ymir’s van, followed by Connie, Sasha, and Krista.

“That’s right, get outta here before I slap you with a trespassing charge,” Hannes laughed loudly.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Connie muttered, “See ya later, Hannes.”

"I'd hope not," Hannes chirped back.

Jean watched as the group began to file into Ymir’s van.

_‘Shit,’_ He thought, digging his cellphone out of his pocket. Sasha had already texted him.

**we gotta go. :(**

**just for show until Hannes leaves.**

**Gonna drive a few blocks then circle back**

**Let us know when coast clear, k?**

12:32 AM

**Copy that**

12:32 AM

Jean bit his lip as he watched the rattling crap box of a van pull away, leaving only Hannes standing quietly on the sidewalk. Hannes sighed loudly to himself, then walked back over to his car. Jean typed “okay clear” and hovered his thumb over the Send button.

_‘Come on, damn it…’_ Jean thought angrily, _‘Leave… leave...’_

**_“Leave.”_ **

Jean gasped, dropping his phone. It clattered loudly on the floor. He turned around, finding nothing. Just darkness and paint buckets. He could’ve _sworn_ he had heard a voice. He quickly shook it off, looking back outside at Hannes who didn’t appear to have heard him. Instead of getting back into the car, Hannes merely reached in and shut off his lights. Jean was instantly blanketed in darkness, save for the dull light of the streetlight outside and the dimness of his phone screen.

“What the hell is he doing?” Jean whispered to himself, as Hannes continued to linger outside, leaning against the hood of his patrol car and staring blankly at the Trost house. Jean watched as Hannes pulled something from the inside of his shirt and brought it towards his mouth. Jean could tell by the glint of the object that it was a flask.

_“Drinking on the job? Really!?”_

Jean’s phone vibrated. It was Sasha again.

**is he gone?**

12:40 AM

**No**

12:41 AM

**what is he doing?!**

12:41 AM

**Just standing outside!**

12:41 AM

Jean grit his teeth. It was probably best that he didn’t bring up Hannes’s obvious drinking problem to the rest of the group; just like every other small city, words tended to get around fast, and as irritated as Jean felt with Hannes, he didn’t want him getting in trouble...

**can you sneak out the back and meet us?**

12:49 AM

Jean looked from the screen to the shadows of the Trost house. It would be risky to fumble around in the dark, but with no telling how long Hannes was going to hang around outside, Jean knew he would have to try. He would need to be quiet and keep his head low and out-of-sight from any of the windows - he would need to go into the darkness.

**I’ll try. Hold on**

12:50 AM

No sooner than he had sent the text, Jean felt a rush of cold air hit the back of his neck. He shivered, his breath catching in his throat. He remembered the words he could’ve sworn he had heard: “Leave”. Jean felt the hair on his neck rise at the thought of it, and he stepped back towards the safety of the light coming from the window.

_“I can’t…”_ Jean realized, staring into the dark.

What if he was wrong? What if the house _was_ cursed?

Growing more desperate, Jean looked back outside, where Hannes continued to drink. He definitely wasn’t leaving any time soon.

**JEAN**

**U alive? Hurry up!!!**

1:05 AM

Jean gripped the sides of his head. Maybe he should just man up, crawl out, wave Hannes down, and tell him what happened. Not that his luck was anything close to good at the moment, but maybe, just maybe, Hannes would let the whole “criminal trespassing” thing slide…

But what if he didn’t? Jean highly doubted there was water in that flask, and Hannes and alcohol weren’t always the best combination. Damn it all.

**Just go. Im going to wait for hannes to leave.**

1:08 AM

**are u sure?**

1:08 AM

**YES. JUST GO.**

1:09 AM

Jean sank down the wall beside the window and tucked his phone away. He deserved this, he supposed; punishment for being a complete idiot. Slowly, he smiled a little, then chuckled. At least he won the dare, though it probably meant very little to anyone other than him. Still, it felt good to stick it to Eren, no matter the circumstances.

Closing his eyes, Jean began his wait, listening for the sound of a car door slamming closed and an engine turning on. Seconds turned into minutes. Jean could no longer smell the varnish anymore. Minutes turned into hours. Still no car door or engine starting. Even with his eyes shut, Jean could feel them being weighed down with exhaustion. Hours turned into…

* * *

“Hey, wake up,” called a voice.

Jean ignored it.

“Wake up!” the voice repeated.

Something cold suddenly touched his face and he snapped awake, finding himself surrounded by sunlight. Standing over him with a dripping paint roller was someone he had never seen before, dawning dirty overalls and silver-framed glasses. They had extraordinarily messy brown hair which seemed to be struggling to stay in a ponytail, with loose bangs framing their face.

It took Jean a moment to remember where he was, and why, but once he did, his first reaction was to dart for the window behind him. Before he could clear it, the painter jabbed him in the back with the roller, covering him in light green paint.

“Hey, not so fast!” They shouted at him, “I need to know what you're doing here!”

“Or what - you’ll paint me to death?” Jean shot back, reaching for the window once more.

“No, but I _could_ call the police to tell them about a home invader covered in green paint running down Trost Street,” They said, a knowing smile forming on their face.

Jean stilled. Damn. He couldn’t really argue with that, could he? Slowly, he turned to the painter.

“It was an accident…” He started, to which the painter scoffed at him.

“You _accidentally_ crept in through that window and took a nap?”

Jean grit his teeth; there wasn’t enough coffee in the universe for this situation. “No, it was stupid. It was a stupid dare, alright? I was trying to prove this place wasn’t haunted, and then a cop showed up and I got stuck waiting for him to leave. I only meant to come inside for a second. I swear I didn’t do anything else. I never even left this spot - clearly - and you know what, if you want to press charges or something, go for it, because _I’m done_."

“Well, were you correct?”

“No! This was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life and - ”

“I meant, were you correct about this place not being haunted?” asked the painter.

“What…?”

“Just curious," They sighed, "You’re the first person to spend the night here in… years, probably.”

“Well, not by choice, that’s for sure…”

“I’m Hange.”

“... Jean.”

“Well, Jean, under normal circumstances, I’d be obliged to let you sail on your merry way, but I can’t exactly deny destiny.”

“Destiny…?” _What the hell were they on?_

“Mmhm,” Hange nodded, “You see, this house wasn’t supposed to have been this much of a project for me. Normally, I have properties flipped around in a few weeks’ time and then I’m on to the next… but this one… local legends really have a way of scaring away any help…”

_‘Oh, no… no, no, no, no…’_

“For three months I’ve been working away on this place, and it’s safe to say that I’m not even near halfway done…”

_‘No, no, no…’_

“... so when help suddenly arrives through the window, who am I to turn it away?”

“I am _not_ helping you,” Jean said, glaring.

“Oh,” Hange said, before pulling out their cell phone, “That’s fine, then…” 

Jean watched as Hange type the initial “9”, followed by a “1”.

“Hey! Hey, stop!”

Hange hovered over the last “1” for emergency services, watching Jean closely.

“Isn’t that… blackmail?” He asked.

“ _You’re_ the one on _my_ property,” Hange stated, “I think simply asking you to help paint a few rooms for tresspassing is perfectly fair.”

“But - I have a job. I can’t just _not_ show up for work…”

“Surely they don’t have you working every day, do they?”

“I mean, it’s retail, so...”

“Ah, good point. Well, give me your schedule for the week, and we’ll make an arrangement.”

“And what the hell would stop me from just not showing up?”

“Guilt?” Hange asked, before chuckling and flashing a grainy screenshot of the front porch on their phone, “Or the surveillance footage.”

_‘Damn it!’_

“Fine. Got a pen?”

* * *

That afternoon, back at Titan’s, Jean placed his head down on the break room table after telling everyone the outcome. Ymir was the first to start laughing, quickly followed by Connie and Sasha. But the second that Eren started to smirk, Jean was clutching him by his vest.

“This whole thing was your fault, you know!” Jean snarled at Eren, who attempted to swat him away.

“How was it _my_ fault?” Eren argued.

“You’re the one who made the stupid dare to go in!”

“And you’re the idiot who _took_ the dare! I didn’t force you to do anything!”

“Stop it, guys!” Connie cut in, “Levi’s here today - save it for outside, would you?”

“Or, you know, just call it a truce?” Armin suggested.

Ymir snorted. “Armin, come on. Jean and Eren making a truce? That's like hoping for a promotion - ain't gonna happen.”

“Alright, Jean,” Sasha said, placing her hands on his shoulders, “So what, you have to paint a couple rooms for the landlord? I think that’s worth saying that you spent the night at the Trost Street house!”

“That’s right, Jean! Why are you so mad? You won the dare!” Connie said, to which Jean finally let go of Eren.

Connie was right. For all his troubles, and for how foolish the entire thing had been, he had won and Eren had lost. Unfortunately, Jean wasn’t able to relish in his victory over Eren for very long.

“What do you think? Haunted or not?” Sasha started.

“How should I know?” Jean scoffed.

“Well, did you see a ghost?” Sasha reiterated.

“No,” Jean said, leaning away from her.

“Did you feel anything, then?” Krista asked, “Or _hear_ anything?”

“No - I mean, I _thought_ I heard something, but…”

“What? What did you hear?” Sasha asked, far too eagerly.

“Nothing. It wasn’t anything,” Jean suddenly lied, "Seriously, guys..."

“How long did Hannes stay outside?” Armin asked.

Jean couldn’t hide his irritation much longer. “Long enough for me to fall asleep, I guess - I don’t know. Look, nothing happened, okay?!”

“What are you all doing?”

It was the only question that caused a chill to shoot down everyone’s spines; standing directly in the doorway and looking as unenthused as ever was Levi Ackerman, the store manager. He glanced at each of them before looking directly at the clock.

“I highly doubt you’re all on break at the same time…” Levi pondered aloud, “That would be against store policy and all. So, I’ll ask again… what are you all doing?”

No one said a word.

“I’ve been standing here longer than you think…” Levi revealed, before glaring at both Eren and Jean, “Why is it always _you two?_ ”

Eren and Jean looked to one another, and not more than five minutes later, they were both mopping the floor. As furious as they both were, they both agreed that it was better than another write-up.


	6. Smells Like Seafoam Spirit

**_“Leave.”_ **

Jean sprang awake in his bed, covered in sweat, his mouth unbearably dry. Desperately in need of water, he opened his door and was surprised to find light coming down from the kitchen. Had his mom forgot to hit the switch again? Cautiously, he made his way down the hall, and found her sitting quietly at the kitchen table.

“Hey,” Jean whispered, so as not to startle her, “Mom…?”

She looked up and smiled tiredly. “Oh, Jean. I’m sorry. Did the light wake you up?”

“No, not at all,” Jean said, “You, uh… alright?”

“Yes, dear,” She said, “You? You’re sweating. Want me to turn the air down?”

“No - it’s fine. I’m good. Just… thirsty.”

“You don’t drink enough water during the day, that’s why,” she criticized.

“Yeah, I know,” Jean nodded, knowing she was right.

“How have you been, anyways? I feel like I hardly see you anymore.”

“Oh? About that, I, uh… got a little bit of news, I guess.”

“Yes? What is it?”

Jean took a deep breath and tried to remember his rehearsals from earlier. “I’m, erm… going to start _volunteering_ for a little while.”

“Really? Doing what?”

“Uh, just some… painting jobs here and there.”

“Painting?” She repeated, a sparkle gracing her eyes.

“O-Oh, y’know, like _walls,_ ” Jean corrected quickly, “Painting rooms. Nothing artsy.”

“Oh, I thought you meant murals for a second...”

Jean rubbed the back of his neck. “No, no. Nothing like that.”

His mom pouted. “Well, that’s a shame. You’re such a great artist, you know...”

Without thinking, Jean shook his head. “Not so much anymore…”

“Don’t you say that,” His mother said quickly, poking his chest with her index finger, “When you’re given a talent like that, it’s _always_ yours.”

Jean looked at his feet sheepishly. _Shit._ “Well, maybe this’ll turn into murals or somethin’... I don’t know...”

His mother, sensing his unease, mirrored him by looking down. “I’m sorry, Jean. I didn’t mean it like that. I just... miss you making art. I don’t want you to give up on it, or yourself. I really think it’s wonderful you’re choosing to volunteer. You’ve always been such a good boy.”

Jean felt his face flush. Once more, with no audience, a pang of embarrassment.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah - well, I, um… I’m going back to bed, alright?” Jean said, “Love you. ‘Night.”

“Love you, too, Jeanboy. Goodnight.”

Jean returned to his bedroom, but before climbing back into bed he glanced at his closet. He hadn’t looked at his art in years; he dreaded to.

* * *

It was no later than seven in the morning on a Wednesday when Jean returned to 163 Trost Street, dressed in the worst clothes he could find from the depths of his dresser: baggy jeans from when he had been a little heavier in school, and a promotional T-shirt he’d received from the state fair a few years back. Since Hange had singlehandedly destroyed his favorite band T-shirt - The Killers - during their first meeting, he had no intention of ruining more clothes with paint.

With the door wide open, Jean stepped inside, immediately greeted by Hange handing him an empty paint bucket.

“Waste no time, do you?” Jean remarked.

“Like I said, labor’s hard to come by around here,” Hange said, looking amused one moment before falling serious the next, “And I need every minute I can get from you… in this case, all two-hundred-and-forty of them.”

Jean fought back the feeling of intimidation radiating from Hange and snatched the bucket from them. “Alright, so where am I at?”

“Up the stairs, last door on the right,” Hange said brightly.

“Right…” sighed Jean, as he took to the staircase.

He couldn’t believe this was actually happening...

It was strange how light could make things exceedingly less scary. All of the uncertainty he had felt the night of the dare was now not only absent, but questionable. Why had he even been afraid before, he wondered. The only thing _really_ scary about this house so far was Hange.

At the end of the upstairs hallway was a window that overlooked the north side of the house. The view was rather plain: just a line of trees at the edge of the property, concealing the next house way down at the end of the street. Below, a small fence to the backyard that an untended hedge had grown through.

Jean entered the bedroom on the right, which shared the same view as the hallway did, but an additional window in line with the doorway, facing east, overlooking Trost Street. Outside, the two oak trees were swaying in a gentle breeze that was spilling in through the window. Jean stood quietly for a moment, enjoying the brief moment of peace, before remembering he had a job to do.

Help for the neglected walls would come in the form of a calm, teal-green color that Hange had decided upon throughout the house. Jean had gotten to know the paint rather well from attempting to get it out of his Killers shirt for several hours; “Seafoam Spirit” was the color’s name. After prying open the can and stirring the pigment for a few minutes, Jean looked around the walls for a good starting point and finally got to work.

There was definitely something therapeutic about painting walls, at least for the first hour or so. After that, a certain soreness would set in and the smell would start to get too strong. Jean passed the halfway point near the north wall, mostly numb to the job and his thoughts, when he noticed the smudges. Dozens and dozens of small, gray lines were etched into the original paint.

“Tally marks?” Jean wondered aloud, tracing a few with his fingers before shrugging and dragging his paint roller over them, finishing the wall.

After another hour or two, Jean made the final touches on the last wall of the room before standing back to admire his work. The room felt much more open and cleaner, and the tint looked nice with the bright blue sky and deep green trees right outside.

“Hey, I’m done up here. What’s next?” Jean called down to Hange.

They answered by thundering up the steps excitedly, “Really? That was so fast! I better inspect your work...”

“I’m fast, not careless,” Jean remarked, watching as Hange dashed into the room.

Hange scanned the bedroom, mostly impressed, before their sight settled on a small section in the corner. “Oh. What about right here?”

Surprised, Jean looked over, then froze.

The tally marks were back.

“You missed right here,” Hange repeated.

_But how?_

“I… I could’ve sworn…” Jean stuttered, reaching to touch the wall. Wet paint greeted his skin, which he quickly showed to Hange, “Look, I _did_ paint over this!”

Hange cupped their face thoughtfully, looking over the marks again, “These are pretty dark. It might need another few coats. But then, of course that would mean you’d need to recoat the rest of the room so the color isn’t off…”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Jean argued.

“What’s wrong? You’re fast, not careless,” Hange half-mocked, “Shouldn’t be a problem for you!”

Jean almost, almost, snapped his paint roller in half.

* * *

The next day, the equivalent to his Sunday, Jean returned. One room down, five to go. If he completed another room today, his work on the Trost house would be done after only two more weekends. That wasn’t so bad, he figured, as long as no more weird marks reappeared on the walls. He had tried to not think too much about it, chalking it up to a fluke. After all, once he had repainted them, they hadn’t come back. He wondered who would tally mark a wall in the first place, outside of a prison anyway...

Just like before, the front door of the Trost house was open. Much more slowly, Jean entered, and thankfully wasn’t greeted with a paint bucket shoved into his face.

“Hange?” He called, before finding Hange in the kitchen, fiddling with a few empty paint buckets.

“You’re early,” Hange commented, without facing him.

“Same time as yesterday,” Jean said, shrugging.

“It’s seven already?” Hange realized, before finally turning around.

Jean immediately noticed the dark circles that had swept under their eyes.

“Did you stay up all night?” He questioned, to which Hange groaned and removed their glasses, revealing just how bad the bags were.

“That bad, huh?” They said.

“Just a little…” Jean answered, “You want me to go get us coffee or something?”

Hange placed their glasses back on, then smiled faintly. “You know, that actually sounds pretty nice… thank you.”

Jean simply nodded, not sure why he felt a little bad for the person who was currently blackmailing him into doing free labor. He looked up at the house, noting each and every intricacy, realizing that Hange had taken on the project all by themselves. Could he really blame Hange for recruiting him? After all, it wasn’t Hange’s fault that Jean had snuck in that night.

_“And what the hell would stop me from just not showing up?” His own words echoed._

_“Guilt?”_

Jean slammed his truck door and sped off to the nearest gas station, returning with four cups of black coffee and a bag of creamer and sugar.

“Very kind of you,” Hange complemented, before noting the gas station logo, “Didn’t cost you too much. Good.”

“I’m saving up right now,” Jean answered defensively.

“That so? What for?” Hange said, before taking a sip; if they had one thing in common, it was a preference for black coffee.

Jean felt his cheeks begin to sting with warmth before he blurted, “Moving out.”

Hange smiled. “Really? Not liking your current situation? In need of a change of scenery?”

Jean shook his head. “It’s... not really ideal for my social life.”

“Ohh, you still live with your parents, don’t you?”

Jean avoided Hange’s eyes, opting to stare at the floor between them instead, “Yeah, with my mom."

"And your father?"

"Tch. My dad took off as soon as he found out she was gonna have me, so… it’s pretty much just been me and her this whole time...” Jean answered before tensing up. What was he saying? He didn't have to answer a question like that - not to Hange, not to anyone...

“Oh, one of _those._.. I’m sorry…”

“Look, I really don’t need your pity,” Jean said, suddenly angry, “I don’t know why the hell I’m even telling you all this… what room am I doing today? Can I start now?”

Jean briefly caught a note of guilt in Hange’s eyes before they gestured to the paint cans lined up on the kitchen counter.

“Upstairs again, bathroom this time,” Hange said, “Really small one. It’s all taped up, too, so it shouldn’t take you too long.”

“Thanks.”

Jean took out his residual aggression with a paint brush, embarrassment slowly succumbing to pain. It had been a long time since he had mentioned his father, let alone thought about him. And of course there was the guilt of snapping at Hange, whom despite the whole ‘help paint’ thing, didn’t seem like a bad person. For all Hange knew, his father could have died in a war or something. Something valiant. Not something...

“Cowardly bastard…” Jean muttered at the thought of his father as he swiped the wall with paint, “Bastard…”

He could picture his mother crying now, all alone, her hands cradling her belly.

“Don’t think about him…” Jean told himself, "Just stop."

_How could a man do such a thing?_

Jean watched as his hand began to tremble and his lines became less and less even.

“Pull it together, idiot…”

_“When are you going to move out, Jean? Never?”_

Jean could feel everything welling up in his eyes.

_"The results were positive."_

He shut his eyes tightly. _Don’t think about it. Don’t. Don't..._

**_“Please don’t cry.”_ **

“I’m not…” Jean whispered, turning around to where he thought Hange was standing - but in the doorway, in the hallway, there was no one. His stomach turned and he looked into the bathroom mirror. Only him, his face streaked with tears that he had failed to hold back.

“What… the hell…” He whispered.

That voice.

He had heard it before.

Jean furiously rubbed the tears off of his cheeks, then looked around again.

“Hey. Is someone there?” He asked quietly, “Hello…?”

Silence.

By the time Jean had finished the upstairs bathroom, he had become certain the voice he had heard had been his own stress-induced thoughts. The last time he had heard it, he had been in a similar state of panic. He shrugged it off, cleared his work with Hange, and went straight home, attempting to salvage what few hours remained of his weekend. No sooner than his back had hit his bed, his phone buzzed. As usual, it was Sasha, checking in on him.

**how did it go this morning?**

**1:27 PM**

**Fine.**

**1:27 PM**

**See any ghosts yet?**

**1:27 PM**

**Only the ghost of my freedom.**

**1:28 PM**

**LOL**

**1:28 PM**

As much as Jean loathed Titan’s, he was relieved that he didn’t have to smell paint for the next five days. He found himself rearranging any displays in his department remotely resembling “Seafoam Spirit” for most of his shifts leading up to his next weekend, which he kept as an ongoing mystery for both Hitch and Marlowe.

“I swear, if I have to fix this display one more time, I’ll walk out,” Hitch claimed.

“Only one more week,” Marlowe reminded of their move to Marley, which the whole store now knew about.

“If I have to fix this one more time, I. Will. Walk. OUT.” Hitch repeated, loudly.

“Jean, do you know anything about this?” Marlowe asked.

“Hm?” said Jean, price gun in one hand, his phone in the other.

“The products keep getting moved around,” Marlowe explained, “The teal ones especially… it's really weird.”

“No idea,” Jean lied, “I didn’t even notice.”

Hitch crossed her arms. “Maybe if you actually cared about your job, you’d notice. You’re gonna miss us, y’know.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Jean replied, even though he knew she was right.

* * *

Waking up to go to the Trost house each weekend (in Jean’s case, the weekend currently being Wednesday and Thursday) became more and more of a routine as July went on, enough that by the final day of “volunteering” Jean was surprised to find a table and a few fold-out lawn chairs in the living room area. On top of the table was a box of doughnuts and, what was no doubt done with a little bit of inside humor, gas station coffees.

“Good morning, Jean,” Hange waved to him from the kitchen, where they were putting some finishing touches on the cabinets.

“What’s all this?” Jean asked.

“What’s it look like? Breakfast, dummy,” Hange laughed, “And also, a small thank you, for all that hard work I threatened you into doing for me.”

Jean smirked and looked over the box, favoring a chocolate one before settling into one of the chairs. He knew imbibing would result in him having to do two hundred crunches later, but that would be later. Maybe. Hange, hands covered in white paint, joined him.

“Really, thank you, Jean,” Hange said again, “You’re a good guy.”

Jean just shrugged. “Wasn’t the worst thing in the world, I guess.”

Hange took a sip of coffee, then looked out the window, allowing the chirps of the birds and cicadas to fill in the silence that followed.

“Just a few more weeks and she’ll be ready to be rented out,” Hange eventually said of the house.

“Have any calls, yet?”

“Here and there, but nobody who seemed too serious,” Hange said, sighing deeply, “It is the ‘ghost’ house, after all…”

Jean paused, then set down his coffee cup; it was still too hot to drink. “Hange, can I ask you something?”

“Go for it.”

“You own this place, and you’ve been renovating it for months, now…” Jean said, “Have you ever… _experienced_ anything?”

“You want me to be honest?” Hange asked, before turning to gaze at him, “Not a thing.”

“Oh,” said Jean, looking down. _‘So I am crazy, then…’_

“Have you?” came Hange’s reply.

“I… don’t know. I thought I heard a voice once or twice,” Jean said slowly, scratching the back of his head, “But, now that I think of it, that voice sounded more like my own thoughts. Almost like... an _echo_ of what I was thinking.”

“Interesting...”

Another pause, then...

“Jean, do you know why I bought this house?” Hange asked suddenly.

“No clue. It’s pretty?”

Hange chuckled a little, then crossed their arms. “You might not believe me, but I’m what you’d think of as… well, _a ghost hunter_.”

Jean felt an unsure smile begin to form on his face; was Hange joking, or serious? Should he laugh? Should he act interested? Ghost hunter? _What the hell?_

“And no, I’m not joking,” Hange added, sensing Jean’s hesitant reaction, “I don’t tell many people, because, obviously, it’s a really funny thing to admit to. Anyways, since stumbling into this ‘hobby’, I’ve made it a mission to purchase what’s referred to in the reality world as ‘stigmatized homes’ - a fancy way of saying, _haunted houses_.”

Jean sought comfort in retaking his coffee cup, which was _still_ too hot to drink but perfect for warming his hands which, despite the warm morning air, had gone cold and clammy.

“I buy them, study them for a while as I renovate them, and determine phenomenon - if any - then either sell or rent them out,” Hange continued, “In total, I’ve cleared twelve allegedly-haunted properties. And… given both of our experiences here the past month, it would seem that this one makes thirteen.”

“Wow,” Jean said softly, “Thirteen houses and no ghosts, huh?”

“Not even a bump in the night, let alone an apparition,” said Hange, quite sadly.

Jean looked up suddenly. “What makes you believe ghosts are real, if you haven’t seen one yet?”

“Probably the same thing that makes some people believe in God,” Hange remarked, “Call it faith, call it stupidity… it’s there all-the-same, that urge for the truth. That comfort of something beyond ourselves. How about you? What do you believe?”

Jean crossed his arms. He wasn’t sure why Hange’s question made him think of his mother.

_“So, what did the Doc say?”_

_“The results were positive.”_

“Hange, this is a pretty heavy chat to have over doughnuts and coffee…”

“You know, you are _absolutely_ right,” Hange chuckled nervously, “Sorry to have asked…!”

“No, it’s fine,” Jean said reassuringly, aiming to change the subject before more memories had the chance to overtake him, “So, uh… where am I at today?”

“Well, I saved the best for last,” Hange said, sporting the biggest grin that Jean had seen so far, “For your last day of work, you’ll be retouching the basement!”

_“...another only son, found strangled in the basement, a day before Halloween…”_

“Retouching...?” Jean repeated, hiding his sudden uneasiness.

“Yep! Should be a cakewalk for you after everything else. I wanted to give you something really easy on your last day.”

Jean couldn't find it within his pride to argue and gathered the small amount of tools he would need before Hange showed him the door to the basement, which connected to the kitchen. He thought very little of the work at hand as he descended down the wooden stairs. He felt nervous, but beyond that, he felt sick.

_“Positive? Positive for what?!”_

_“Cancer, Jean.”_

Damn it - it was too late, his heart was enveloped in an occurrence that had happened nearly five years ago…

* * *

When his mother had gotten the diagnosis, Jean had just turned 18 years old. It was April. He was a few months away from graduating. The only real worry he’d had at the time was asking Mikasa to the senior prom. But when his mother got back from the doctor’s office and told him the news, suddenly nothing in his life mattered anymore. School, the prom, Mikasa - none of it. It was as if the word “cancer” sucked everything he’d ever known into a black hole, leaving him numb and colorless.

That night, Jean had taken his frustration out on his truck by speeding down Interstate 29 at three in the morning, with every window down, “Goodnight, Travel Well” by The Killers blasting, and no destination in mind. He eventually pulled off in Krolva, a small town nearly fifty miles away from his house that made Paradis look as big and bustling as Marley. From there, he watched the stars until the sunlight took them away, questioning how the universe could be so cruel. His mother wasn’t very happy when he returned home the next morning - in fact, she handled him disappearing into the night worse than she did the news of her diagnosis.

The next year was grueling for the Kirstein family. Jean lost track of how many doctor appointments and chemo treatments his mom endured, even though he attended every single one. But by the end of it, she pulled through, and on Mother’s Day of all days, she had been declared cancer-free. Jean wished he could have felt the same relief as everyone in the lobby as she rang a bell to celebrate.

_“There is always a chance it can come back.”_

The doctor’s words had burned something fierce into Jean’s mind.

It wasn’t as though he wasn’t grateful. Grateful was an understatement. It wasn’t even close to any string of words that could describe his mother beating cancer… but, like a quiet shadow in the corner of an otherwise-sunny room, the threat was still there. And as long as the threat was there…

_“Where do you live?”_

_“You still live at home?”_

_“When are you going to move out?”_

_“You seriously need to move out already.”_

“I can’t do it…” Jean whispered to himself, a paintbrush frozen in his hand as he stared at a chipped wall, “Because the moment I do, she’ll...”

Jean cringed as the shadow in his mind grew, enveloping the entire room. It was there, in that infamous basement, he was finally met with the truth that he’d never dared to admit to before.

“Damn it...” Jean choked, his skin growing cold. He hardly noticed it, until...

**_“Hey, you’re crying again...”_ **

The paintbrush hit the floor with a loud clatter and Jean opened his eyes, turning to the sound of the voice, which had sounded as clear as a bell. His chest tightened immediately; there was _no way_ that voice was from his own head - he was certain this time.

Directly to his left, within the ray of light, the dust was now swirling violently around in a strange pattern, disturbed by the presence of someone standing within it.

“Hange?” Jean called out to the silhouette that seemed to be forming in midair.

Jean squinted, trying to make out what he was seeing: a dull, translucent outline of a person. It froze him from his core to the tips of his fingers. Every hair on the back of his neck was standing on end as his heart pounded heavily within his chest, enough for his breath to get caught in his throat.

_“This is the ghost house after all…”_

“Who’s there?” Jean managed, just above a whisper, “Are you... that voice I keep hearing?”

 **“You can hear me?”** asked the voice, with a degree of echoing, but far clearer than Jean had ever heard it before, **“Wait, can you see me, too?”**

Jean could only nod as he watched the transparent details come into focus: hands, one placed over an old vintage T-shirt and the other anxiously down at their side. A face of a young man, who seemed just as shocked and confused as Jean was. Two bare feet, hovering just an inch above the concrete of the basement, and… track pants?

“I… I can see you...” Jean answered, feeling as though he was in a trance. Everything in his body was screaming at him to run, but his legs were frozen, as if locked in cement. He had to be hallucinating - was it all the paint he’d been smelling for the last few weeks? Why was everything suddenly so cold?

“I can’t believe it…” The apparition said, seeming to fight back a smile, “Hey, you’re really pale… are you okay?”

“I…” Jean grit his teeth and forced himself to turn away.

“It’s Jean, right?”

_It knew his name?_

“Hey, don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you. Promise.”

Jean grit his teeth, eyes shut tight. _No way._ After a minute, he slowly opened his eyes again, bracing to see the specter once more, but... it was gone. The only semblance of the encounter was in the form of goosebumps covering the entirety of Jean’s skin. Breathless, Jean made a break for the stairs, subsequently flying so fast out into the kitchen he caused Hange to scream and almost fall off of the ladder they were on.

“What?!” Hange yelled, “What happened?!”

“I… I don’t know…” Jean gasped, before looking at Hange; his face must’ve read it all.

“What did you see?” Hange asked, “Jean?”

Jean shook his head, his heart still racing. He could picture the young man as clear as day. He could still hear his _voice_ . He felt sick all over. Had that really just happened? Had he just seen _a ghost?_

Flustered by Jean’s unresponsiveness, Hange dashed to their car to get him a bottle of water while he clung to the kitchen counter, his knuckles white. There was no way. There was just _no way…_

Logic, once his best friend, had completely abandoned him.


End file.
